


So far entwined

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Future, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pizza, Wolf!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s a wolf. So what if he follows Stiles around now out of habit, so what if Stiles scratches him behind the ears without thinking about it. He's a wolf, and he's the only thing keeping Stiles from falling apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So far entwined

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M_Leigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Leigh/gifts).



> I unfortunately took a lunch break today at work and read Morgan-Leigh's tumblr where I saw [this post](http://morgan-leigh.tumblr.com/post/57741753460/eiuora-i-want-derek-to-become-a-wolf-at-the-end) and I couldn't get it out of my head so I wrote a thing.
> 
> Major character death does not refer to either of the two mains. Panic attack mentioned but not described in any detail at all. More notes at the end if you want them.
> 
> If I need to warn or tag for anything else, please let me know.
> 
> This is all written in one go and totally without beta, so if you spot a howler of a typo please also let me know.
> 
> Title from my current earworm [Chvrches - Gun](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ktoaj1IpTbw)

Stiles leaned on the doorframe looking out into the small backyard while the realtor (Angie? Andi?) continued to rattle off an apparently endless list of amenities within the local area. He squinted a little at the ratty evergreen, the tattered grass and the small terracotta pot of sickly pansies that filled the space between the small house and the low, chain-link fence. “So,” he asked without turning around, “Can I have a pet here?”

***

Having a werewolf best friend made moving, if not a piece of cake, then at least significantly easier than it should have been. Three hours after parking the UHaul in front of his new house, Stiles and Scott, only marginally sweaty, sat drinking beer on the green plastic beach chairs Stiles had salvaged from his and his dad’s house.

“Man, this place is sweet!” Scott said, waving his beer vaguely around the garden. “At first I thought your living off campus was crazy, even with the whole thing, but, dude, we’re gonna have so many parties here!”

Stiles just grunted, shifting lower in his chair until he was nearly horizontal and lowering his empty bottle to the ground. A wet nose nudged into his trailing hand.

“Hey, dude,” Stiles whispered, shifting to look at the large black dog beside him, “What do you think? Think we can live here a couple of years?”

The dog glanced briefly up at Stiles before ambling over to the pot of even more withered pansies and cocking a leg.

Stiles snickered. “Yeah, Derek, I know. We’ll redecorate. And we’re only a little way from West Rock so we can go see if there’s more space for running there, if you want.”

“Stiles, man, I know you…”

Stiles stood abruptly, “I’m gonna get another beer. You want one, Scott?”

“Yeah, dude,” Scott sighed. The lounge chair creaked ominously as he pushed himself up to stretch. As he settled down, he looked over at Derek who was lying down next to Stiles’ empty chair, muzzle on his paws, eyes fixed on the open door. His eyes were still a striking shade of green, but these days they never flashed red or blue or golden yellow. After they got used to his size, most people never even gave him a second look. Even Scott forgot sometimes that he wasn’t just a particularly wolfy, mutt. But when he was staring after Stiles, or, more frequently, staring watchfully at the people around Stiles, it was impossible to miss the intelligence in his eyes.

“Scotty,” Stiles called through the kitchen window, “I’m out of beer. I’m gonna head over the shop a couple blocks away and see if I can get more. Derek, you wanna come?” Derek was already standing when Stiles said his name, and he trotted inside, ears perked and tail waiving.

Scott lay back and shut his eyes against the late afternoon sun. “I’ll be here, Stiles,” he called back, “Catch up on my sleep since you keep getting me up at 6!”

“Man, you know it’s Derek’s fault not mine!” Stiles’ voice echoed out, “It’s not like you can ignore a wolf when he wants his dawn walkies!” Scott felt more than heard the thump of Stiles hitting the ground and laughed to himself. As dog-like as Derek seemed these days, there were still some things he wouldn’t stand for. He heard Stiles laugh and lever himself back up off the floor, keeping up a steady stream of conversation the whole time which Scott tuned out.

As much as the rest of them knew Derek was more than the dog he’d settled into being, Stiles was the only one who never really forgot. He talked to Derek about the news. He asked his opinions about TV shows, movies and interior decoration. Once, Scott had even found them sprawled side by side on the floor of Stiles’ old house, noses deep in piles of college brochures, grunting and chattering, respectively, as they sorted out Stiles’ future.

The sheriff would have been proud, Scott knew, to see Stiles doing so well. Without Derek’s silent but constant presence, Scott doubted that Stiles would have made it through the horror of his father’s death, let alone finished high school and gotten into an Ivy League university.

By the time Stiles and Derek returned with more beer, Scott was slumped half off his lounge chair, left arm thrown across his eyes and sound asleep.

***

Stiles pulled his coat close around him and stamped his feet on the frozen ground, frost-coated grass crinkling under his chucks. “Fuck, Derek, where are you?” he muttered. Jesus. It was only November and New Haven was already too fucking cold. Not that the constant drizzle helped much. Stiles couldn’t remember the last sunny day. No wonder all those New England prep school kids all had so many scarves.

He slumped back against an old oak tree, wishing he had his crosse and a ball so he had an excuse to move and keep warm. Usually Derek only needed an hour or so to run off his nerves, but Stiles had had two papers due before Thanksgiving and hadn’t managed a trip out to West Rock in two weeks. He wished he could call Scott and Isaac, but both of them had fled back to California for Thanksgiving with Scott’s family. Melissa had invited Stiles, just like every year, and Stiles had declined, just like every year. “So many exams in December,” he’d told her, “So much studying I can get done when the libraries empty out.” Melissa had just clucked a little, but let it pass thinking, no doubt, that Stiles didn’t want to spend another Thanksgiving in Beacon Hills without his dad.

In actual fact, Thanksgiving had never really been something they’d celebrated. His dad thought that the sheriff’s office meant he had to work holidays so that the rest of the officers could spend the day with their family and they had no extended family to speak of, so Stiles had spent most Thanksgivings either with Scott or surrounded by bowls of candy and piles of video games.

He rubbed his hands together, thinking longingly about the mittens still locked in his glove compartment and watched as a family obviously trying to walk off their turkey came towards him on the path. They reminded him of nothing so much as of a gaggle of geese with fat pale mama goose followed by a string of fat, pale baby geese and fat, pale papa goose following behind to keep stragglers in line. They all nodded and Happy Thanksgiving-ed him as they passed, but Stiles just smiled and didn’t say anything. Just as they disappeared from his peripheral vision, something dark moved between the trees opposite him.

“Hey, Derek!” he called out at the dark animal bearing down on him, “Have a good run?”

Derek didn’t seem to be slowing his approach so Stiles stepped away from the oak and braced himself as nearly 200 pounds of wolf barrelled into him. He hit the ground hard, but, used to Derek’s roughhousing, rolled with the momentum and tangled his fingers in Derek’s shaggy coat as he flipped the wolf over. Derek retaliated by jamming his nose (cold and wet, of course) onto the bare skin beneath Stiles’ chin and, when Stiles broke out in peals of laughter, followed it up with a long, wet lick from the edge of his jaw to his hair line.

“Oh, man! Derek! That’s disgusting!” Stiles gasped reaching up to wipe at the wet streak with his coat sleeve, “I know you love the woods, but don’t be going native on me!”

Derek snorted at that and squeezed out from under Stiles, giving a violent shake remove the dead leaves and dirt from his coat.

“You ready to go home then?” Stiles asked.

Derek looked up at him and sat patiently while Stiles dug a black leather collar out of his coat pocket and buckled it around Derek’s neck before attaching a matching leash. There were no strict leash laws in New Haven, but Stiles had found that people were more comfortable with Derek’s size if it looked like Stiles was in control. Not that a leash or collar could really hold the werewolf, if he wanted to get away and not that Stiles would stop him if he ran, but other people were assholes so Stiles had bought a leash. In Beacon Hills, no one ever seemed to question the big black dog that had been Stiles’ constant shadow since the day after his father died. East Coasters were just less laid back about these things, he figured.

As they made their way back to the car, Stiles pursed his lips and blew long thin clouds of white air while one hand absently stroked the soft fur behind Derek’s ear. In the parking lot, he saw the goose family crowding into an oversized white and gold SUV and laughed again as pointed them out to Derek who licked his lips thoughtfully.

“Don’t get any ideas, big guy! There’s plenty of turkey stir fry leftover from last night, that’s all you get!”

Derek just huffed in Stiles’ general direction before jumping into the back of the jeep and laying down.

***

February was definitely the suckiest month. Even in Beacon Hills it was dark and grey, but February in New Haven was awful. Icy sidewalks, freezing rain, short grey days. The flu. It didn’t help that February 5th was also the anniversary of his father’s death. Even the flu couldn’t stop him thinking about that. Derek knew, of course, and had curled himself across Stiles’ body, tail twitching by his right ankle and nose pressed into his left armpit.

Derek understood grief. After Cora died, six months after Peter had been torn apart by something – they never had figured out what – he’d disappeared. Scott and Isaac had searched the Preserve, and they had promised Stiles they could smell him, that he was there and alive, but he clearly didn’t want to be found. On his 18th birthday, Stiles had gotten drunk at a party at someone’s house near the Preserve and, after more tequila than was probably wise, he walked out into the woods and started shouting for Derek. When Scott found him the next morning, Stiles was asleep, curled in a pile of leaves underneath a large tree, an old, torn up leather jacket draped across him.

Stiles had dithered for days over the jacket. Part of him wanted to keep it, maybe use it to lure Derek back out of the woods. Instead, the following weekend, he made his way back to the same tree and left the jacket folded up on its roots. When he checked a few days later it was gone. After that, Stiles stopped going into the preserve and tried not to think about Derek or the tragedy of the Hale family.

He did his school work, he made dinner for his dad, he chased monsters with Scott sometimes. Then his dad had died. The stupid thing was that it wasn’t anything supernatural. It wasn’t even his heart. Some asshole he’d pulled over for driving drunk had a gun on him and got a round off before his dad saw it. Three years later, Stiles still blew up anytime someone mentioned the second amendments or gun shows in his presence.

The deputies who showed up at his house sat with him through the initial shock and the first panic attack, but they were on duty and Melissa was on her way so they left. In the silence of the house, Stiles’ heartbeat echoed weirdly in his ears. He wandered room to room for a while, before collapsing in the middle of the living room floor and sobbing. Melissa found him there when she arrived and didn’t try to make him move, just wrapped her arms around him and added her tears to his. Eventually, with Scott and Isaac’s help, she had gotten Stiles up and into the car, gotten a bag packed and gotten him into the pull-out bed in Isaac’s room.

Stiles hadn’t said a word to any of them or eaten any of the food Melissa offered. Instead he had lain in bed curled into a tight ball, wondering if anything would ever make sense again. He doubted he’d sleep. Maybe ever again.

He had woken up in the grey pre-dawn with a warm body pressed closely against his back. Stiles rolled over expecting Scott to have joined him in the night like he had during their childhood sleepovers. Instead he had found himself sharing a bed with an enormous black wolf and staring into a pair of very familiar green eyes.

“Hey, Derek,” he’d croaked. “I guess you heard the news.” Derek stared back at him a few moments then ducked his head, pressing his nose into Stiles’ chest and whining quietly. Stiles tentatively reached an arm out and wrapped it around Derek, then, when Derek didn’t seem to want to shake it off, he squeezed tightly and sobbed quietly into Derek neck, soaking the dirty fur under his face.

Derek had barely left his side in the three years since. He let Stiles lean on him at the funeral. He lounged around the high school on the first day of Stiles’ second senior year. He watched endless episodes of Star Trek and Babylon 5 on Stiles’ laptop when grief and anxiety made sleep impossible. After months of nothing but television and occasional dinners at Melissa’s house, he’d covered Stiles’ bed in the pamphlets and brochures college’s had been sending him since he took the PSATs in sophomore year. He seemed content to be Stiles’ dog to most of the world, but wolf or no, Stiles understood him. Scott was Stiles’ brother and Isaac was his friend, but he and Derek shared a connection in that hollow, empty place within each of them which he found difficult to explain to the others.

While Derek was obviously going to follow him to Yale (and hadn’t convincing the student office to let him live off campus as a freshman been fun?), Stiles was still pleasantly surprised that both Scott and Isaac had decided to make the trek to the east coast too. After two years at BHU both had transferred to Southern Connecticut, Scott to study nursing, Isaac into the renowned social work program.

“Stiles?” Scott’s voiced echoed up the stairs, “How you feeling, man?”

“Still pretty sick, dude,” he wheezed back, listening as Scott ran up the few stairs to his bed room.

“I brought you pizza, Stiles!” Scott smiled,  leaning into his room and shaking a box out in front of him, “Think you can eat something today? It’s from Bar – mashed potato and bacon!”

“Mmmm,” Stiles hummed weakly, smiling at Scott who pulled a desk chair over to Stiles’ bed and balanced the pizza box on his knees. Derek had twisted his head around towards Scott and he sniffed unsubtly in the direction of the pizza.

“Yeah, dude, you can have some too,” Scott grinned, holding a slice out towards the werewolf.

Stiles struggled a little, pushing against Derek’s dead weight, as he shifted into a more upright position, then, overwhelmed by dizziness and nausea, leaned back against the headboard and squeezed his eyes shut. Derek gulped down the pizza noisily, then surprised Stiles by yipping quietly for more.

Even when he had vocal chords, Derek had never been talkative, and in his wolf form he barely made any noise at all. Aside from a few small whines and the occasional amused or annoyed huff he hadn’t vocalised anything at all in Stiles’ presence until they’d moved to New Haven. Even mired in grief or buried in school work, Stiles talked enough for two and, once Stiles learned to translate shoulders and eyebrows into hackles and ears, he understood Derek just fine. But in the last few months Derek had been speaking up more and more. He never barked, but he yipped when he wanted attention, snarled at strangers on the street when he walked Stiles home from the library late at night and once, memorably, growled at the poor a Capella singer Stiles had brought home from the JE Screw. After that, Stiles made a point of not bringing people home – not that he hooked up that often, but it was college and a territorial wolf wasn’t going to stop him from all his fun.

Still, Scott was, Stiles thought, the first person they knew that Derek had ‘spoken with’ since he’d gone off alone into the preserve.

Scott wouldn’t leave until Stiles had managed to choke down two slices of pizza, and between the dregs of his flu and the roiling grief that he always felt around the anniversary of his father’s death, Stiles was ready to pass out again when he heard the front door click shut.

He shoved weakly at Derek and slid down again nestling his head in his pillow as the werewolf settled in on top of him again. Stiles reached a hand over and stroked Derek’s muzzle gently, “Starting to feel talkative, Derek? I’ll bet Scott calls up his mom and Isaac the second he’s in the car and tells them you’re getting chatty.” Derek made a small grumbling noise and settled his large head on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles yawned and let his exhaustion overtake him.

***

Stiles never planned to get mugged in New Haven. Beacon Hills had some rough areas and he knew how to walk in a city, what sorts of streets to avoid, when to call a taxi. But months of a constant werewolf escort had made him lazy and he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should have as he wandered up Edgewood towards his house.

Derek had stayed home because Chrissy, the cute girl in his Spanish class who’d asked him out for Pad Thai, was allergic to dogs and, based on Derek’s obvious distaste, he was allergic to her as well. The date had been ok, Chrissy was funny and attractive, but she was going to study abroad in Argentina next year and Stiles didn’t really see the point in starting something at the end of the year anyways. So he didn’t order dessert and didn’t walk Chrissy back to her college. Instead, Stiles walked up Chapel Street for a few blocks before cutting over to Edgewood.

He’d kick himself later for not paying enough attention to his surroundings, because he couldn’t even picture where the man in the grey hoodie came from. But suddenly there he was in front of Stiles with a kitchen knife and a cracked and hurried demand for his wallet and phone. Stiles didn’t even think about fighting back, he just dug both out of his pockets and handed them over then held his hands out in front of him, palms up. The mugger didn’t even look back at him, just shoved the knife back in the front pocket of his hoodie along with Stiles’ wallet and ran.

Stiles took a deep stuttering breath and stumbled the last few yards to his own front door.

“Derek,” he called, slamming the door behind him. “Derek I’m back, I’m…” his breath failed and he found himself leaning back against the door, gasping for air. Then Derek was there. He reared up on his hind legs, planted his front legs on Stiles’ shoulder and started licking Stiles’ face over and over.

“Oh god, Derek!” Stiles gasped, “What are you? Argh! Stop!” Derek ignored him. “I’m ok, Derek. I swear. Just a little shaken up.”

At that, Derek dropped back to four legs and yipped questioningly. He was still crowding Stiles into the door, keeping him upright even as his legs shook with adrenaline. “So,” Stiles started, “Don’t get mad. I just got mugged.”

Derek growled, a threating rumble which Stiles felt all through his body.

“It’s ok, Derek. I’m ok. He just took my phone and my wallet. I’m ok. It could have been worse.” Stiles slid down the door until his butt hit the welcome mat. Then he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Derek’s shoulders. Derek was still growling low and in his chest. “Really it’s ok. I’m ok. I promise I won’t be such a dumb ass again.” Derek snorted. “Ok, I probably will be a dumb ass again, but I’ll do better at situational awareness.” Derek pressed into him, paws in his lap and nose running up and down his neck and torso. Stiles laughed at the cold wet tickle against his skin and Derek edged back, giving Stiles room to shift.

“Come on man, let’s move this cuddling to the sofa. I’m stuffed and need to lie down.” Derek huffed but let Stiles get to his feet and move towards the living room, but he stayed close, weaving around him like a cat. When Stiles lay down on the sofa, one leg over the arm the other off the edge, foot resting on the floor, Derek crept up and lay on top of him like he had when Stiles was sick.

“Oof, watch the stomach, dude. That’s my Pad Thai you’re pressing on!” he laughed. “No, no! Stay here. The date was a bust but I still want a cuddle tonight!” They settled into a comfortable position and Stiles turned the TV on. Between the werewolf heat, the adrenaline drop and the lousy Saturday night listings, Stiles was asleep almost immediately.

When Stiles blinked his eyes open the next day, he could tell immediately that something wasn’t right. It was early, the sun was just starting to creep in the window and he was on the sofa not in his bed, but he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV enough times that that wasn’t it. Derek was gone, but Stiles was still warm, his legs tangled in an old blue blanket.

“Derek,” he called out with no response. “Derek,” he called again, louder this time to be heard over the shower. The shower. Stiles was suddenly wide awake, because who would be in his shower at ass o’clock in the morning? Scott and Isaac had keys, but both of them would still be sleeping this early in the morning, not creeping into Stiles’ place to wash.

Stiles got up quickly and crept towards the bathroom. “Derek,” he hissed, “I could really use some back up! I know you’re still pissed about last night, but seriously, I need you.” The shower shut off and Stiles pressed himself back against the opposite wall of the hallway. He started sliding back towards the living room, but froze as the bathroom door opened.

Stiles almost fainted when Derek, human looking Derek, stepped out, freshly shaved with a towel around his waist.

“I’m…” he started, voice rough, eyes dancing around Stiles, but not looking straight at him, “I’m _not_ still pissed. I’m… I was… scared.” He took a tentative step towards Stiles, but stopped when Stiles remained frozen against the wall. Stiles stared at the Derek in front of him. After nearly 4 years he looked much as he always had, younger maybe than Stiles remembered, but then Stiles wasn’t 17 anymore either.

“You…” he tried, “What… I mean… you’re…” For the first time in years, Stiles found himself without the words he needed. Derek’s gaze dropped, eyes fixed on the floor at Stiles’ feet, Stiles could almost see him folding inwards, shrinking down. Without thinking he launched himself forward and gathered Derek up in his arms, clenching his fingers in the warm, damp muscles of his back. Derek closed his arms slowly around Stiles, then clutched tight, burying his nose in Stiles’ throat.

Stiles ran his hands lightly up and down Derek’s back, feeling the ridges of muscles which didn’t seem to have diminished in the years since Derek had last taken human form. Finally, Derek looked up, “it’s just, I… I need you to be… to be ok. And I… the wolf, it…” Stiles leaned back in his embrace and watched his eyebrows and shoulders, saw him shift from foot to foot and grinned a little through the tears he was absurdly blinking back. Derek’s body had always been more eloquent than his voice and four years as a wolf hadn’t made him any more articulate.

“It’s ok, Derek. Me too, I… Without you I would have lost my mind and, you’re… even as a wolf… you get me, or I get you, or something. I mean, we, um, we fit together?” He stopped there, afraid, suddenly of crossing a line.

Derek just reeled him in tighter, pressing their bodies together from shoulders to knees. “Fuck, Stiles. Keeping you sane, it kept me alive and… it made me remember,” he paused and squeezed Stiles again, “remember how good just _being alive_ can be if you have people to… people to love.” He pulled back slightly and finally looked directly into Stiles’ eyes, with nothing but questions in his own.

Stiles didn’t bother to say anything, he just leaned up and pressed his lips to Derek’s, eyes fluttering shut as Derek pressed back.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on the content:  
> Derek flees to the woods of the Preserve after his uncle and Cora are both killed. When Stiles' father is killed in a routine traffic stop he returns to Stiles in wolf form to help him through his grief. He stays in wolf form throughout, protecting and supporting Stiles as he goes back to school and heads off to college. Stiles is mugged and the fear for Stiles' safety triggers him to return to human form.
> 
> Stiles has a panic attack when he's told of his father's death, but no description is given.
> 
>  
> 
> Notes on the story:  
> I have done my best to be honest to New Haven's geography and character, but it's been a decade since I lived there, so stuff might have changed. West Rock is lovely, Southern Connecticut is one of four (count them, four) universities in New Haven (plus a few others in the surrounding towns) and is very well known for its education and nursing programs. Bar's mashed potato and bacon pizza is a religious experience. It can't be described in any other words. A 'screw' is short for 'screw your room mate dance'. It's a Yale tradition where friends and room mates set each other up on blind dates (that almost invariably go wrong) for dances held in various colleges, in this case JE (or Jonathan Edwards).


End file.
